Unity
by Ryth76
Summary: INCOMPLETE indefinitely! Sauron has conquered the West, but then he turns on his own victorious army. AU. Caution: some sci-fi elements, sensuality, mentions of rape, violence, and language. ABANDONED. MIGHT REWRITE.
1. Prologue

**A/N: _-applauds self for posting fossilized LotR story up- And over here is another story from my old account. It only had four chapters, but it was perhaps my best LotR fanfic. It needs some TLC and some fixing up, but there's no reason why I can't post it as is with minor corrections and start working on it again. _**

**Unity**

* * *

**Prologue**

Every triumph is hollow. The sun may rise, but it is the sun that casts the shadow. And the shadow always creeps forth at the end of every day, then plunges to complete victory.

The fairest hour of the day is just before the end.

Since the beginning of time, the shadow has always endured and conquered.

Some call it the night when they are under its heavy shadow. Others call it the twilight. The night is always the hoped for. Yet it is the eventide when the last hopes are boldest, when the glory of the free folk is boldest and when the flame of war glows unholy red.

The fairest hour of the day is just before the end. The beauty of the setting sun is just before the nightmare of the shadow.

The Dark Fist closes about the world.

And it waits.

-------------------------------------------

The air throbbed with the dull dirge of war drums. The line of slave soldiers marched at a fast trot. Their leader, more slave-driver than officer, walked alongside them, shouting for speed and occasionally cracking his whip at them. The orcs hurried along, not daring to give him a passing glance. It had been many miles since the two small deserters had been tossed into the line. It was now lighter, the darkness of Mordor creeping away as they approached the Black Gate.

"Company halt!" the slave-driver shouted. The orcs stopped and the drums ceased. "Inspection!" The word broke the dead silence only to hang there like a black cloud.

The inspector, a fat orc with one white eye and a demolished nose, started through the lines. He looked over the line, pushing and squinting his good eye at the assembled line of orcs. Suddenly something caught his eye. He let out an angry roar and began to push through the line. _"Sam, no! don--"_ screamed a voice that couldn't have belonged to any orc. There was a sudden commotion in the back. Angry roars erupted and the entire line rushed to one side.

The driver reached the scene of the fight before the inspector. He gave the scene a quick glance. One of the deserters had stabbed his dark-haired companion through the heart. Something, a chain maybe, had been torn from his neck. Orcs ran amok, baying and snarling. The slave-driver charged after them.

An orc stopped, rather abruptly, not far ahead of him. The orc was waiting for something. That something flickered in the corner of the _Frúshgoth's_ black gaze. He halted and looked. A small figure clad in orc-armor ran for his life, ducking and dodging groping hands and swords. He was headed straight for the mountain, nearly escaping, but had unwisely chosen a path near the slave-driver.

"No, you don't!" the driver shouted. His whip flicked around the spy's leg as the smaller creature darted past him. The small figure crashed with a cry. The orc grabbed him with both hands, but the horrible elven blade slashed him across his free hand, severing three fingers from the knuckles. The orc-driver shrieked and fell back, releasing the spy to clutch his maimed hand.

The inspector rushed past him at breakneck speed, charging with the rage of a bull. The driver staggered back to his feet and hurried after them. But there was no need. The spy was on the run, overseer on his heels. The driver moved to cut him off and attack a second time to avenge himself, but the inspector lunged at the small 'orc' first, and a blade struck through the spy's side, mortally wounding him. In a wild blow before darkness seized the spy, his blade cleaved through the noseless _Gimbpush_'s skull.

The surviving orcs stared down at the dead bodies. One was the large corpse of the inspector, but the other was no orc. His dirty face was like that of a man, topped by curly light hair. The slave-driver knelt beside the freshly slain spy and pried open his fingers with his good hand. There was only a golden chain in his hand, but a gold ring hung on it. The very sight of it was horrific, though repulsively innocent in manner. The orc's eyes narrowed. He picked it up. The contact burned him, branding his mind forever. It bore down on his sanity and willpower like heavy chains. It whispered. It laughed at him in a horrible low voice. It sang as though with the voices of the elves.

_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul…. _

* * *

**A/N: _Yes, Frodo and Sam are dead. I'm horrible, but this is a dark fic where the Enemy finds the Ring and wins the war, so it only makes sense for them to die. And it's more merciful... _**

**_Poor little hobbits...._**

**_-------------------  
_**

**Glossary of terms:**

_Frúshgoth_ - Whip Master in working ranks. Equivalent to Captain (_Pizdur_) in orkish military ranks.

_Gimbpush_ - Inspector. One rank higher than a Whip Master. Equivalent in orkish military ranks is Lieutenant (_Mautor_).

_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul…_- One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them...


	2. Fallen

**A/N: _Just a little Author's Note before the story begins. This story has androids. Yes, Sauron starts making AI androids. I thought it was an interesting idea back when I was a teenage fanfic writer. It's kind of a cyberpunk apocalypse Lord of the Rings tale. Just a warning before the story actually intensifies.  
_**

**Part I: Time of the Orc**

* * *

**_Fallen_**

The world has an eternal cycle of Dark and Light.

The night pursues the day, and must always win. The sun sets at the end of every cycle. As light fades, so does hope. But it does not die. _Never_ die. For night has a secret.

Without day, night would not be night. Without hope, despair would be meaningless. The moon receives its light from the sun, and without the sun there is no moon. Without the light, there are no stars. The stars are what reveal the night.

Without the Light, the Dark would be futile. Powerless. Meaningless.

Light casts the deepest shadow. Shadow, therefore, depends on the light to exist. Both at war, both striving, but the end result is futile. Both must coexist to be.

Despite this, the darkness crushes the dawn. The twilight of the elves has fallen, and the orcs rejoice. Yet the darkness of evil itself is futile without the balance of good.

Even Heaven has a twin.

And the twin is Hell.

-------------------------------------------------

The strange silence was the first sign that something was wrong. In the spring, the countryside of the Shire should've been filled with the chirps of songbirds and crickets. But there was nothing, no sound but the talk of gossiping busybodies and the low moo of an agitated cow. Farmer Maggot's dogs too were restless, barking and whining at the distant horizon. A dark line swiftly grew there like a mighty storm. The farmer was especially suspicious of it. "Not natural, if you ask me," he muttered. All the hobbits generally agreed, but they said, "But what's the harm of having a little rain? It ain't bad for the crops."

All the same, the hobbits watched the southwest with nervous apprehension. One little hobbit at Buckland watched the clouds deepen, slipping silently over the Shire. Soon the shadow fell upon him. No thunder came, nor the scent of rain. Curiosity piqued, he scampered up a tall tree, despite the nervous protests of his mother. Upon reaching as far as he dared, he shook in terror of falling and wrapped his arms as far around the tree as he could, digging his fingers into the bark. Carefully, he peered into the west. He screamed. "Mama!"

The darkness they had mistaken for storm clouds cloaked a mighty host of orcs and trolls from the bright sunshine. They were marching straight for them, destroying everything in their path. They were marching, burning and plundering– And then they were upon them.

Orcs advanced on the Shire village, killing and burning everything in sight. "Mama!" screamed the lad again, but his mother didn't stir from where she'd fallen from one blow. The orcs saw him and shouted. Frozen by terror, he didn't dodge the arrows in time. The dead child fell before the marching orcs. They hewed him into pieces in a combination of hatred and sheer delight.

Within a few dark hours, Buckland fell under siege. Chaos erupted. Hobbit children and women ran hither and thither in a panic. The men gathered together with what make-shift weapons they could find, mostly hunting and farming tools. The orc army collided into them, slaughtering all in their path. Many orcs fell dead to the tweaking of hunting bows and a barrage of stones. The orc army divided, some heading toward the north, some toward the south, and some deeper into the Shire. The warring continued as the night came and deepened.

Rosie Cotton understood, through the veil of shock and panic that had seized her, that they were being driven to some unknown point. What the orcs had in mind, she couldn't imagine, but she knew it would be horrible. She dived to the ground and scrambled out of the path of danger. She hid behind the burning Green Dragon, behind the broken pile that had once been emptied barrels. It was stiflingly hot with a rain of hot ash falling, but a few burns would be nothing compared to being killed, or worse. From the sounds, the orcs were passing by swiftly. She slowly relaxed and began to stand up again.

A rough hand seized her shoulder. She cried out as the orc spun her around, swinging her feet off the ground, and crushed her against the wall, a two-fingered hand reaching up to grab her throat like a vise. The wall seared her skin and hair through her dress. She wanted to scream, but her breath was choked.

She could see the orc in the firelight. Yellow fangs leered at her from black gums. Dark eyes glimmered with merciless delight at the kill. The light flickered dully on the small filthy rings in his hooked nose and the bloodstained scimitar he clutched readily in his other hand. Rosie punched him in the face hard. He loosened his grip for a brief second, then snarled into her face, tightening his grip. He lifted his scimitar again and swung it toward her neck. It had all happened in three seconds. Rosie screwed her eyes shut and waited for the blow with a choked whimper.

"That's enough! Let her go. The land is taken," a harsh, snarling voice shouted. The orc released her with a grunt of disgust. Rose's legs buckled beneath her and she panted for breath on the ground, whimpering from pain and fear. The tall orc who had caught her hovered over her, straggly locks of pale colorless hair drooping down his terrible face. She bolted and he seized her by the hair quick as a striking snake. "No, you don't, _akashuga_! Hands up, now!" She obeyed cautiously. He bound her hands together roughly and marched her in front of him. His fingers dug into her shoulder cruelly and he shoved her roughly forward when unsatisfied with her speed. The plate of his armor grazed her shoulder as he knelt to snarl into her ear. "Playing nicely, little _akashuga_? The first two didn't come quietly. Perhaps you'd like to meet them?" He gave a dry, barking laugh like a rattling cough. Or like a whip snapping.

Rosie shuddered at the gruesome delight his voice conveyed. There had been smugness in his voice, as though giving away a secret he was proud of. The orc pushed her on.

"You'll find your sweet little Shire will be quite changed in the morning. You should get used to it, and hard work, 'cause we're going to be here for a long time," an orc sneered, his blue eyes eyeing her lewdly. His companion snickered beside him. Both carried a whip on them and appeared many decades younger than the orc clutching her shoulder. Rosie shuddered. Her captor spat over the said shoulder.

"What're you doing here, Urkghâsh? Get back to work, before I– "

"We are working, Morhont!" his companion growled, impatient and annoyed. "Why don't you just back off before–"

Morhont yelled. There was a startling crack. The two orcs yelped and whimpered, cowing away from his whip. "You _stupid_ gnats! I'll flog you so hard, you'll be begging for work! I'm in charge around here. Can't you even remember where you were before I came along? Slaving away like the rest of the slugs. Do you want to go back there again?"

The two orcs stammered, "N-no, sir!" and hurried away.

Morhont jostled her shoulder. Rosie stumbled on, fighting against the stitch in her side and her thirst. Ahead of her, she could see the great gathering of chained hobbits, frightened and panicked by the violent siege against them. The children were all herded together away from their parents. Many screamed loudly for them, but others stood in a daze or cried numbly. Orcs standing watch shouted for silence and the sound of a whip was heard. Rosie halted in mid-step, colliding with her captor. Morhont slapped her, leaving a fiery bruise across much of her face. He barked painfully close to her ear, "Keep moving!"

"What's the problem here? Lass problems, Morhont?" sneered the voice that had inadvertently saved her life. Rosie saw the hideous wasted face of the orc-general. His face was more like that of a skull than even an orc. Dark hair covered his head like overgrown fuzz. The orc clutching her shoulder jolted. He growled, "Don't be a fool! She needed discipline."

The general brushed his answer aside. "They need more help over there. You'd better get going. You hear me?"

"_Akhoth_!" Morhont shoved her at the other orc and she was aware of his departure only by the heavy footfalls of his iron-shod feet. The general pushed her in line. Orcs darted forth snarling, chaining her to the nearest hobbit. "Rosie!" It was poor Fatty Bolger, an old friend of Samwise and Frodo. At the thought of Sam, Rose's heart quailed. Where was he now? Had he escaped the tide of war? _Oh, Samwise…_

Fatty was quaking in terror and shock. When another hobbit was brutally whipped for making a barely perceptible whine, he opened his mouth as though to speak. Rosie hushed him and listened nervously. The orcs hadn't been alerted to the sound. The two hobbits stood in silence, determined not to give the orcs an excuse to beat them. Rosie knew they were likely to beat them no matter what they did. It was best not to give them any more reasons.

"You!" She jumped. Morhont's voice arose, harsh and angry. "Stop your howling!" A whip cracked sharply. A hobbit's terrified yelp answered. The whip fell again, and the hobbit fell silent with a whimper. The orc left the hobbit alone.

_Where is Papa, and Ma? Where is the Gaffer? Where is everybody?_ Rosie let her eyes wander about carefully, taking in every hobbit. She recognized poor old Noakes and saw her brother Nibs beside him. She wanted to talk to them, but didn't dare. Not with the orcs watching. The cries of the children and parents slowly died down, their spirit snuffed out by the harsh yells and whips of the orcs.

"Move it!" someone shouted in front. The hobbits lurched one after another, yanked and shoved ruthlessly. A few of the orcs, content that the hobbits had been subdued, sat aside. They took some dry bread and began to eat, snarling in their native tongues to each other. Rose's stomach growled. She'd not even had a last second breakfast. One of them gave a grossly wet laugh. At the sound, Rosie found she wasn't so hungry after all. She choked down her wave of nausea and averted her eyes.

The hobbits were marched to a ravaged valley. A hideous man-thing on a horse was waiting there. His eyes were covered by an ugly helm etched with runes. Beside him was a large winged monster. Even more terrible was the figure on top of the beast. A black cloak covered the tall figure, ragged like a great shroud. Rosie felt cold, as though she'd fallen into freezing water.

The orc-general growled. "Milord, we have captured the rat-land. These are all of those left alive."

The cloaked figure spoke in a hollow voice. "You have done well. The Mouth of Sauron desires to speak with them."

The horsed man bared gruesome yellow teeth in an unusually large mouth. "My master bade me show you thy friends." And he tossed a large sack at the hobbits' feet. Two shrunken heads and two hobbit-sized dismembered bodies tumbled out, naked. Rosie screamed as one head rolled onto its side, facing her. It was Sam.

The world shattered, heaving inward. The beastly creatures around her mocked her with their grinning fangs and malicious gazes. The ground wavered underfoot like water. Inside Rosie was falling free fall.

"Sam! No!" The Gaffer's cry caught her and a reality crueler than any orc crushed her. Rosie couldn't help herself. "Sam!" She lunged screaming at the hideous man. "You killed him! You murderer!" She fell forward, her chains too short for her goal. "I'll kill you!"

The mounted terror upon the winged beast hissed his displeasure at such insolence, but the Herald laughed. "Ah! I see they were dear to thee. But don't thank me! Morhont did it. Morhont, give them their belongings."

The orc stepped up to the beast and spread a pile of orc armor before their feet. Two beaked helmets, a golden chain, and hobbit undergarments and pants followed. There was an unusual gray cloak, tattered by blades, clasped by a beautiful green jewel like a leaf. Orc-weapons and a lovely short knife glowing bright blue lay to the side. Morhont sneered at the hobbits. He looked at Rosie and bent to pick up one of the orc helms. It had a long narrow crest down it. He tossed it at her feet. She bent to pick it up with trembling fingers.

The orc knelt and snarled into her face. "Keep your dirty little treasure, _akashuga_. When you look at it, remember who found the Ring." Rosie knew nothing of a ring. The orc went on, ignoring her expression of enraged ignorance. "It was me who captured them, me who returned it! I am Morhont, Baggins' Bane!" He spat the name into her face. His mouth widened in a sneering grin, baring his fangs. Flat black eyes laughed at her pain. Rosie shuddered. Fatty was whimpering beside her.

The orc gave a barking laugh, sharp as the crack of his whip, into her face. She gagged on the stench of his breath. He stood up, laughing quietly under his breath. Rosie shivered in hatred and fear. Numbly she was aware of tears streaming down her cheeks. There was a horrible shriek unlike any living thing as the winged rider took off, followed by the Herald. The orc-general shouted from afar, as Morhont strode off to rejoin the lesser slave-drivers, "Bring them!"

* * *

** A/N: _Ah, the plot thickens. Honestly, I'm not too impressed by this chapter... _**

**Terms:**

_Akhoth_ - yes sir (said to superior officer in orc army)

_Akashuga_ - halfling (if I remember correctly)


	3. Delusions

**A/N: _Only one more chapter after this before I reach the part where the story discontinued... It really isn't much of a story, no? Sadly, I can't remember what all the terms for this chapter mean, so I can't help you guys any there. _Snaga _means slave, but that's all I remember.  
_**

**Part I: Time of the Orcs**

* * *

_**Delusions**_

_Two years later…_

Mordor.

A grisly unyielding land surrounded by harsh mountains. In the midst stands Mount Doom, known as Ghâshurbh by some tribes. Ancient, its beginnings forgotten in time, it swells up from the ground, spewing fire and ash in its wake.

Here the fallen Ringbearer once hoped to destroy the One Ring.

Here few now dare to tread.

Less than a hundred leagues away in every direction, bands of orcs live quietly.

Or should.

Would, if the hatred and bitterness of Morgoth didn't burn in their black hearts continually.

Born in the Darkness, they are the children of Melkor himself, made in mockery of the elves. Incapable of living without the shadow, they are the vilest of the loyal servants of evil. Hated and shunned by all, even themselves, yet they live on. Some for thousands of years; others only for decades or, at the most, a few centuries. Only the fittest, cruelest, and cleverest will survive.

Especially now that sport is seldom found. Except in the suffering of each other.

Together, they span the grim corpse of the land of Mordor. Or what once was Mordor. It was not the land that the countless thousands had died in service to.

It is not the Mordor where Morhont the orc drove scum to war.

It isn't the Mordor Morhont retrieved the Ring for.

It isn't even a _shadow_ of Mordor. There is nothing to reflect what it once was, except for the Dark Tower, the Eye, and His servants of old.

But now pristine strips of steel furnished by strange hands laminate the land, dark gray in the darkness, shimmering with torch light. The land is flat, featureless, with tall towers of smooth metal. There is neither light nor darkness in Mordor, the Black Land. Neither ugliness, nor beauty. The new folk of Mordor would philosophize, if they had the ability, _What is white, but the opposite of black? What is black, but the opposite of white?_

White cannot be without black.

Neither can exist alone. It is not within their nature to exist without the other.

For every shadow, there is a light.

For every nightmare, there is a dream.

For every despair, there is a hope.

Night has fallen, but day must always pursue it. And night eternally shadows the day. Neither can exist alone. It is not within their nature to exist without the other.

Darkness itself cannot be without the light. For it is light that makes the darkness. And darkness, the light.

Let there be Vacuity.

* * *

Fiery red eyes pierced the darkness, staring out with a steady gaze. The bony orc's sensitive ears picked up the sound of approaching footsteps, but she had already sighted the other. She could nearly taste his familiar scent upon her tongue. She curled her lips in a snarl and the orc returned the gesture mutely, black eyes nearly void of emotion, slits barely seen in their dark pools. Morhont advanced toward her swiftly. His casual voice grated hideously. "Someday I'm going to kill you."

The orc-woman grunted and returned the greeting. "Not today." Her voice was barely there; a thin thread of coldness lingering in the chilled air. A sneering smile slipped on her face. "Back already? Or deserting?" She didn't dare go too far with her jest; he was not beyond killing in retaliation. In the gray line between truth and lie, he frightened her.

"Deserting?" He made a displeased sound in the back of his throat that wasn't quite a grunt. "No one is working now, Khatlob. Our purpose now is war."

Khatlob narrowed her eyes. Her black tongue flicked out to rub the piercing in her lip. A mildly interested glint touched the slave-driver's eyes. Her tongue darted back into her mouth. Not yet. She glowered at him in disgust. "_War?_" She spat out. "But I thought we captured the last of the rebels months ago. Our enemies are crushed now."

"Except the filthy elves," he corrected her brusquely. "And they're helping others escape. It's been two years, and we've seen nothing. Now the vermin remaining outside Mordor are vanishing. He wants it stopped."

"You'll be fighting, then?"

He gave a harsh laugh like a sharp cough. Like the crack of a whip deepened and roughened into the voice of an orc.

"_Nar!_ We're wanted to drag the remaining rats in. That's why no one is working right now. Everyone is needed."

"Even you?" Contempt richly laced her voice. "Surely, they'd let the champion fight once in a battle. You get the praise of Mordor for killing two worthless halflings, yet 'no fighting for you' they say. Morhont the great Baggins' Bane, _sha_!"

His severe face blackened. He bared his fangs at her. Not that he really needed to part his lips any further to. "That's enough! Be quiet before I decide to eat you."

Khatlob snarled a long strand of insults. "I'm your mate!"

"And a useless annoyance," he said, the yellowed peaks and blackened gums partially vanished.

Khatlob snorted her disgust. "A threat, Whip Master?"

The slave-driver glowered at her. "Garn! I wouldn't eat you even if I was starving, Khat. You'd taste bad. Besides, I wouldn't hurt you."

"Me neither." She didn't say if she met him or herself. Let him doubt her loyalty. She was never sure of it herself anyway. A few miles away, she knew, there were other orc-huts, held by the mates of the soldiers. But no women came near their hut, and few orc-men. One of the few rewards for the capture of the Ring.

One Khatlob would not have minded never having. The squabbles between the women and the violence between the young were sorely missed. There was nothing to burn her rage on, unless Morhont dropped in. Then she could burn off her aggressive energy in breeding. Khatlob guessed it had been his idea to raise her passion for his convenience.

She turned her back on him and strode into the shadows. He followed her into their hut. The small building was deep inside and dark beyond Man's ability to see. The Dark renewed the shadows within them and strengthened them, and added a quality to their senses.

She could now hear dust rustling along the ground and the groaning of stone underfoot. Hear the distant rumble of thunder and rain pattering onto distant grounds.

She could feel the pulse of the air, as though the world had a heartbeat.

She could smell the fumes from Mount Doom.

She could smell the long passed fear and pain of slaves on her mate, all but vanished so only the Dark could reveal it, mingling with the unmistakable scent of blood and rage.

It smelled intoxicating.

Inviting.

They spent a moment smelling and listening. No bands were about, nor any of their kin. They were safe for the meantime. Safe from attacks and disturbances. Safe to, perhaps, concentrate on reacquainting themselves. And hopefully more.

Khatlob slowly relaxed and eyed her mate. Morhont gave her a curt glance. A flicker crossed his face. He was now aware of her mind set. His lips curled in a soundless snarl and he stalked past her. He sat down on a half-broken bench. Khatlob sat on the far end and swung her feet up in front of her. The orc looked callously over to her, keeping well away from her. How eloquently hard and cold of him. She sneered at him. "So… you'll be leaving soon?"

"I'm not staying for breakfast, if that's what you mean. But I could leave right now, if it pleases precious Khatlob," he answered, harshly. He changed the subject back to the war. "Maybe I'll disappear and become a soldier. It was bad enough that instead of getting promoted to _Pizbûr_, I got dumped with those two apes."

The rich aroma of his bitterness was exciting. It could've been worse; Morhont had barely avoided the Black Pits and death. Khatlob growled playfully. She all but purred. "Perhaps they thought your iron blood was too strong and dangerous to handle."

Morhont glared at her, clearly uninterested in breeding at the moment. "What was that?"

She scowled at him. A sly, come-hither smile crossed her face. She would get to him. She tried again. "Or perhaps they thought you looked too desirable to ruin."

An eye twitched, slightly. He looked more goaded than flattered. Yet a hint, just a hint, of the musk of lust was on him. Just a hint. "Elf-weak faggots!" he muttered.

"I didn't mean the soldiers!" she snapped.

Morhont poured some ale from a near keg into a mug. He sat back down and drank in dark silence. "I'm a bit over the desired age for a mate, don't you think?"

"Well, you won't be looking for another mate, hopefully. I still find you desirable." And Khatlob moved slightly toward him.

He grunted. "_Narnûlubat_." He continued to scowl, ignoring her prompting face. He changed the subject once again, determined not to respond. The scent of desire and arousal was now strong. "I wish I could do some of the fighting, instead of being left with the lazy slugs. But then, I'd get killed. Let His new Frûmnauk-hai handle it."

At the reminder of the new army of Mordor, Khatlob jumped up with a loud thud. "Iron blood, indeed!" she spat.

"Iron blood, yourself, _Gothlob-izub_. Who'd protect poor little you from the hungry dogs and warm your bed?" The driver gave a barking laugh, standing up. Khatlob grabbed her mug to throw at him, but he seized it at the same time, black eyes burning. They struggled, then he knocked it away and used his full strength to shove her down onto the bench, her shoulders crushed against the table.

Khatlob snarled, wrath blazing in her contorted gaunt features. She pounded at him with tooth and fist, shrieking in outrage. Morhont pinned her arms down on to the table and bit her neck and face so that she bled. The musk of his desire was now thick and overwhelming to her senses. Khatlob's screeches fell away to purring snarls and pleased, injured growls in response to his hard lust-bites. She nipped at an ear, growling fiercely.

They toppled off bench and table with a loud thud that sent the dishes dancing.

* * *

_Agonkâl_ number 337 of the Frûmnauk-hai glided across the pristine gray floors of the Dead City. His compound eyes stared serenely at the Nazgûl lord. His voice was as smooth and expressionless as a wall of stainless steel. "The fugitives have been surrounded. We will attack within two moons."

That was it. No fear. No hesitation. No excitement. Nothing.

The Nazgûl hissed. "Go now."

_Agonkâl_ number 337 bowed stiffly and left without varying his immaculate pace.

* * *

At the same moment elsewhere, Rose Cotton whimpered in the far corner of her cell. Her clothes were torn and her skin was covered with bruises and gashes from vicious bites. Rage and shame washed through her. Their waters threatened to engulf all common sense.

The Rose Cotton from two years in orc-captivity was a shadow of the Rosie Cotton from the Shire. Skeletal thin and grim faced, she bore more resemblance to her captors than a hobbit. She had been starved and beaten. She had been raped and forced to carry their foul offspring. Yet she was the more fortunate. Though they forced her to carry their hideous spawn, she would never become one of them. She knew she would fight to the death before they took her away like they had the children if it ever happened.

They had already taken the children away long ago, during the first year. The old men and women had been slain and dragged away, but not before the orcs had their sport with them, stabbing and jabbing at them with their spears. The men had been taken away, but they were presumed alive.

In the end, only the young, fertile women were left for breeding purposes. The orcs didn't touch them or bother them much after impregnating them.

Rose found comfort in knowing that the orc who had forced her recently had never sired an orcling before. All the women impregnated by him lost the… results.

Grishblûg had been almost mercifully quick with it, impatient to see if there was any fruit.

Now scarred from their sport and abuse, and the mother of several orclings, Rose had only two things to live for.

She lived for Sam.

She lived because in living she was rebelling against the cycle of pain and suffering. She lived because rage and hatred spurred her on. She willed that she would live to see the end of the orcs' tyranny. She willed that she would avenge Sam.

It was an insane thought for a hobbit. Hobbits were not a vicious, hateful, or vengeful people by nature. But Rose had two things that wouldn't let her hate and rage die into dark despair and hopelessness, as it had the others.

The helmet and Morhont's parting words. The thought that the villain _lived_ burned inside her like an obsessive fire. There was nothing to shield her from the orcishness of herself. There was only silence when the orcs weren't making her life more miserable. Nothing but the helmet to look at. Nothing but her rage, fear, and grief to think upon. And Sam and her old life, which had been cruelly torn from her. Nothing to hear but the laughter and jeering of orcs, her own pleas, and that mocking snarl which forever spat in her ears. In the end, it always came back to Morhont, and to Sam.

Sam, handsome, kind-hearted Sam… Sam with his honest big brown eyes and cute nose, Sam in his garden, weeding or cutting flowers, Sam… Dear, dear Sam… Morhont. Rose's eyes narrowed. Morhont, repulsive, black-hearted — no, heartless, more like — Morhont. Morhont with his cold black eyes and arched nose. Morhont in the midst of the slaves, shouting or beating them. Morhont. Cruel, evil, hateful Morhont. Morhont dead, hewed to pieces like Sam and Frodo. Morhont begging for the end.

Rose blocked the thoughts from her mind. As much as she hated Morhont for what he did, the delight she got from brooding over images of death repulsed her almost more than he did. She was a hobbit, not some orc. She could never be like him.

She contemplated what would've been if Sam and Frodo had succeeded whatever quest they were on. Rose fancied that Sam would've married her. Surely he'd felt for her the way she'd felt about him. But, no, it was probably just shyness. Rose hated being truthful to herself, and in any case, it was no use weeping over the death of a love that had never bloomed. Would it have been any worse if he had loved her before he died?

It was so dark, except for where the helmet sat. Rose tried to look at it and think of Sam, but only one thought entered her mind.

Sam, or Frodo, had been wearing the helmet when he died.

Morhont had killed them.

Rose closed her eyes, then opened them, staring straight into the wall. She immersed herself in the cracks and dips of the bricks, trying to drown out the mental image of the black-eyed slave-driver who called himself Baggins' Bane. A sneer was on his face and he was laughing at her helplessness.

She would escape, and then – oh yes – _then_ Morhont would pay. And how he'd pay!

* * *

Captain Kûhag scowled at the Frûmnauk warrior that stared coolly at him. He wondered what Sauron saw in them. He felt as though he was facing something _less_ than alive. Not that that bothered him in itself, but it was _how_ non-alive _Agonkâl _B240-3415 was. Not undead, but there was no soul to mock. No pain to be seen on his face. There was not even anything in him to raise _fear_; neither malice nor joy in the fight could be seen in his inconceivable face. That – _that – _disturbed the Morigost bred orc.

He managed to snarl, "What do you mean, 'you are to stay here and keep watch'? We're warriors, not watchdogs!"

B240-3415 didn't blink. The Frûmnauk-hai had no lids to blink. Those orcs are forever empty with a emptiness darker than hatred and death itself. The Frumnauk gazed calmly at the orc through cool diamonds. "Sauron wishes it." He stated the name so fearlessly, so _casually_, that Kûhag didn't even flinch from it in his shock.

The Frûmnauk calmly continued. "If you desire work, you may concern yourself with bringing in the captives until further notice."

"That's the flog-happy scum's duty! Even a mindless worm like yourself should know that."

"I am a Frûmnauk, not a worm. My number is—"

"AFAM-B240-3415!" The orc yapped out. "Since you seem to recall so well what you are, then perhaps you, or the other not-a-worm insects, noticed all this unnatural light."

"We have noticed." The Frûmnauk firmly answered without skipping a beat. "We do not consider it necessary to take up Morgoth's time asking for this mistake to be corrected. Try to understand that you and your comforts are expendable and we are not."

Kûhag spat at him. The creature reached up slender fingers and wiped the slime off without a single twitch. The gesture pushed the orc to the very edge of his limits. "You filthy _ape_, you think you are something, but you're just worm-spawn creeping in a dunghill. _Htol-lat, glokghru-lat!_"

The empty orc, if he could be called that, gazed at him. "I'll remember that," he said, "when Sauron is finished with the rebels."

"_He_ isn't going to the war!"

"He won't, but we are his hand and mace in his stead. His thoughts are not unknown to us. We will carry out his orders. All of them."

The Frûmnauk-_Agonkâl_ turned and glided away. Kûhag growled at the tall creature's back, lips curled in a ghastly snarl.

* * *

Morhont's fierce black gaze beat down on the _snaga_ that cowered before him. "What do you mean, you should return to Dushgoi? You were given orders! You'll stay here until the scum are gathered."

The groveling orc's gaze kept wandering toward the brutal whip in Morhont's hand. He stammered, "Y-yes sir. But…"

The 'but'was all it took. Morhont bellowed, "Get going!" There was a loud crack and the hapless slave yelped. He scampered off whimpering. Morhont cracked his whip over the other slaves and shouted for them to go back to work.

Gorkash chuckled under his breath. He coiled his whip in his hands out of habit. "They'll have him on their backs. Let's go!"

Urkghâsh gnawed on scarred lips. Weather burned eyes, both startling blue, studied Morhont's shorter protégé. "We'd better stay. He'll be on our own backs if he catches us."

"Go on! Don't you ever enjoy the thrill? We'll be back before he…"

"Sees you?" Morhont finished, turning on them viciously. His nostrils were flared and a snarl contorted his hardened features. "Get back to work, you lazy scumbags! I'll cut off your ears!"

Gorkash scowled at the older orc and stepped well away from the immediate range of his whip. "Come on, you rats! Move it!" He barked. Urkghâsh yelped out orders in a high, straining cry. "Put your backs into it! You, stop slouching!"

The band of _snaga_ shivered and quickly complied, hurrying with the building of their massive cage.

Morhont stalked up and down the line, taking in the development. The slaves were weary and frightened, despair bright on each face. Misery and progress often went along hand in hand with the singing of whips and swords. He shouted for speed and cracked his whip over their heads.

* * *

Faramir stared out into the tortured world. Sand swirled about the Eastern horizon and black rocks jutted up from the ground in the west. In the north and south, orcs had been spotted. People had murmured that there were hundreds of them, but for some reason they were holding back.

He hadn't heard so much as a bird's song or an owl's hooting since that fateful day. He'd find a place where birds still lived and little frogs and crickets sang to the dusk. But… What if there _were_ no more birds anywhere? No free people, no animals, no plants, nothing?

There wasn't even the shriek of battle to ease away the concern and sensation of grueling helplessness that boiled up in all of them_._ But there was love where they were, and that was more than what most had in these dark days.

And there would be war soon enough to end their suffering, one way or another. Faramir and Éowyn had long settled within their minds that the shadow had won, but at least they would have a last flash of glory for those that had past on. For Denethor and Boromir's sakes. For the sake of Aragorn, who had fallen before his kingship.

Yet those that watched over the refugees in the night had seen _stars_, not one, but chunks of stars, before the clouds covered them again. They felt warmth, and light in the daytime. But day only dimly lit horrific places that should've stayed hidden and unknown.

Sauron had something special in mind. And yet – The shadow of thought couldn't shake the sudden sense of hope inside Faramir heart.

And dread.

Faramir pondered. He slipped back down to the cave where the surviving Free People had fled. There were only a thousand left. A handful of elves, some hobbits, and a multitude of dwarves. Tom Bombadil and Goldberry had joined their numbers, both now homeless and powerless. The couple were most often seen with Treebeard and the ents who had survived. But mostly there were men. Rohirrim, Gondorians, Rangers, and the like.

He could smell stew cooking. Stew made from a bat and a single sprig of old herb. Any herb. _Hopefully, not Éowyn's stew, _Faramir thought fervently. He didn't like bat stew as it was. But his stomach awoke at the scent, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything since last night. He hoped he could eat his ration fast enough not to taste it.

Éowyn's fair figure glided to his side. "The stew's ready. Any signs of what they are doing?"

"No." Faramir smiled warmly at her. "Don't worry. We're going to be alright."

"Something is going on, isn't it?"

A frown passed his face. He breathed deep. "Something feels changed. Not bad, but… foreign and even outlandish."

Éowyn looked toward the Southeast in silence. Toward Mordor. It was only habit. The orcs had gathered in the Northwest and in the North. The east was blocked by unnatural sheer mountains. But the south was completely void of any activity. It was likely a trap. A last attempt to capture some of them, perhaps?

But who knew with orcs?

* * *

"The _snaga_ are finished." Another pair of black eyes locked onto Kûhag's gaze. This pair, however, was nearly normal. Or would've been, if it weren't for the perpetual look of disgruntled disbelief on the orc's face and the dark glint of his predatory slits. The pale glint of light upon them only added to their disturbing quality. "The masters will drive the rest in. We've set up watches."

"Good! I'll report your progress to the Frûmnauk."

Morhont scowled. The slave-driving scum didn't like the Frûmnauk-hai anymore than Kûhag, but Frûmnauks were what they had now. The Northern bred driver hissed, jerking his head sharply toward the awaiting Frûmnauk a distance away, "Since when were they the boss?"

"Ssst! Since He commanded us to obey them. Listen! I don't like them anymore than you, but these Frûmnauk are not like the Big Bosses we used to have. They are nothing compared to us. After everything settles, we can deal with them."

Morhont gave him a look of malicious disgust, but that was just how he looked. Morhont was nearly expressionless. "And what about Him?"

Kûhag opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He blinked once, considering. He blinked again, and narrowed his eyes. The head-driver was right. There wasn't much they could do about Sauron. Rebellions and violent arguments were common and quickly crushed. There was little unity among the orcs to go on. Many would join against the rebellion even if they held the same ideas as the rebels, just to enrage the supporters of the rebellion who had not joined openly. Rebelling, therefore, was a very nasty and worthless business. Sauron had commanded the Frûmnauk over them, and was probably fully aware of their hate already.

"We'll deal with that when the time comes. Go!" Kûhag snapped. Morhont obliged hastily. The orc-general's fingers cracked as he flexed them. He crossed over to the emotionless Frûmnauk. He wondered briefly if he had heard the conversation. "AFAM-B240-3415, we have them now."

The Frûmnauk thanked him in his silken, emotionless voice. He said, "Sauron knows you desire to turn against the Frûmnauk-hai. And Him. Be forewarned, He is watching you, and you are nothing to the Frûmnauk or to him. Do not underestimate my words!" Despite the threat in his words, his voice remained detached and smooth.

Kûhag's hair prickled up his spine. The Frûmnauk watched him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "Go now."

Kûhag, general of the orc-army, never moved faster in his millennia long life.

* * *

Elrohir carefully eyed the orc-watch gathered around the prison. He gathered his cloak around himself. They were running out of time. Less than a day's journey away, more orcs were coming to gather the captives into Mordor. He nodded to his twin and their small host.

They carefully inched toward the orcs. An orc turned toward them. The elves stopped, hidden by their elvish cloaks. The orc grunted and looked back toward the horizon. Elrohir motioned and the elves worked their way past the orcs. They slipped into the makeshift cave. There was filth all over the place. A whimper broke from one of the cages. From within the others, desolate eyes stared up hopelessly at the elves. The eyes of dead people. There were only women, and remarkably small ones.

The elves hid themselves. A uruk entered with a swagger. A dead silence fell over the women. The elves stayed silent as the uruk mocked and jeered them, then there was the sound of a key in a lock. "No! No, please!" screamed the hapless maiden with dark hair.

The uruk crooned, "Now, now, be a good lass. We just want to play." He jerked her to him and licked her neck hungrily. The woman kicked him, but the uruk only laughed and clutched her tighter. He dragged her toward the entranceway.

There was a twang of an arrow. The orc gave a squeal of shocked pain and collapsed. Elladan lowered his bow. "_Mae govannen. Im Elladan,_" he whispered.

The pale woman, a hobbit, only gaped at the dead uruk, then looked at the elves in terror. She gave a terrified cry and ran back into her cage, and huddled there.

"_Avo 'osto!_" An elf knelt and picked up the orc's keys. He unlocked the cells and whispered urgently, "Hurry! Be as silent as mice."

The women, all hobbits, followed the elves meekly. Elrohir held up a hand to stop them, and listened. There was grumbling outside. "What's taking Gazmoz so long? Not hogging them up again is he?"

"No… It's a bit quiet, don't you think? You! Check it out! There might be trouble," another orc, clearly the one in command, rumbled. The sound of heavy footfalls. Footfalls heading straight for the prison. Inside, the elves readied their arrows and Elladan gestured for the hobbits to stand back. The footfalls stopped when a third voice spoke up.

"Pah! Trouble from what?" Laughed the orc. "From a couple of Shire-rats? There's no terrible elves around these parts. Didn't you hear the news, Pushgund? They've all been surrounded and packed nice and neat right where we want them."

"Which is dead, and they are not," Pushgund grunted. "Get on with it!"

The orc who had halted muttered, "_Akhoth_," and proceeded to check the prison. He stared agape at the tall elves. Elrohir shot him before he could react. The orcs yelled and jumped to their feet. The elven host fired a volley of arrows. Not one arrow missed their mark. Twenty orcs fell dead before they could attack.

Eighty more to go.

The orcs charged, screaming in their hideous voices.

* * *

Another hobbit shivered, this time with anger and hatred, as she lay huddled against ancient, long dead roots. Elladan sat beside her. He laid a hand on her shoulder. She cringed away from him. He said softly, "It's over, my friend. You have no need to fear us. The orcs are dead now."

The hobbit lass stared at the elf and shuddered, eyes wild. He frowned as though he had seen something in her eyes. He carefully held out his hand. She ignored it and stood up carefully. She winced and put a hand on her stomach. Over the orc-spawn that was growing inside her like a disease.

Elladan gestured to her and the other frightened hobbits. "Follow me."

He turned away from the hobbit, allowing himself to drift into heavy thoughts. He wasn't aware of when Elrohir reached his side. He murmered to Elladan in Elvish, "That golden-haired hobbit you were talking to… she's tainted with orc-spawn."

Elladan said quietly, "She's tainted with more than orc-spawn. A darkness lies behind her eyes."

Elrohir gazed into his brother's gray eyes solemnly. "We will do what we can."

"No," Elladan answered sadly. "I fear it is too late for her, at least."

* * *

Khatlob listened. Silence. She sniffed. A band of orcs was approaching. Her mate was near. Finished already? But it had only been six weeks. Maybe less, but it hardly mattered. She considered. The captives must have been moved to Mordor. Now it was the soldiers' turn.

She listened and watched. She could see the small band of slave-drivers and overseers. The backbone of the workforce. She could barely make out her mate's armored frame and matted mane of pale hair.

She took a few steps toward them and waited.

Morhont broke away from the band and headed toward her. He grunted to her and walked on. Khatlob snarled indignantly and followed him. "What happened?"

"You don't need to know!" He barked. "Filthy Frûmnauks."

Khatlob asked, "What–?"

He hissed through his fangs. "What _about_ the Frûmnauk?" She snapped.

Morhont said after a moment, "The Frûmnauk-hai are in charge."

"In charge? But what about _us_? What about our _victory_?"

Morhont ignored her, preferring to brood.

* * *

Within the cage, Fredegar and Bowman 'Nick' Cotton waited. Fredegar asked, "What are they doing?"

Nick muttered, "I don't know, but I've got a feeling their not getting us clean water and fresh food."

So the two hobbits waited. There wasn't much else they could do.

Beyond the cage, things were going differently. The Frûmnauk received new orders. Unusual orders, as all the orders from Lugbúrz were.

It didn't matter. The Frûmnauk would obey Morgoth's orders to the fullest. All of them.

They said, "_Begin the execution._"

The Frûmnauk-hai lined up and began their war march.

They were not heading for the cage. They were marching past it. Straight toward the orc-watch.

Back inside the cage, the captives listened. The ramping of feet, the sound of Black Speech, followed by the battle yells of orcs. "What's going on?" asked Fredegar. "Are they attacking?"

"Hush! Something's going on."

There was a brief scuffle.

Dead silence fell.


	4. Treachery

**A/N: _The plot thickens. And ends. This is the last chapter I ever wrote for this story. It's kind of sad. I had the entire story worked out at one time. Then real life caught up with me and by the time things were settled I wasn't into LotR anymore. _**

**Part II: Bargain with the Devil  
**

* * *

_**Treachery**_

This is the new generation of orcs.

It has been bred through sorcery and the spiritual torments of a thousand peoples and has been blended with the best traits of the physical. It is alien and horrible to even its peers, the orcs.

It does not have the hideous fangs of the goblin. It does not have the beastly features and build of the uruk, nor the harsh countenance of the elite orcs of Mordor.

It does not even _resemble_ an orc.

The Orc of Steel Mind is the perfect warrior. Iron nails can cut through metal. Hands cradle a crossbow that simply _belongs_, is merely a part of the Frûmnauk. It moves with precision and trained elegance. It sends chills up the spines of even the most hardened uruk.

Its existence is ironic.

Its existence is a jest at what Morgoth's orcs should have been.

Its high brow is smooth against its skull. Only equability shows upon it. Its multi-faceted eyes like shards of diamonds are deep and black, a notoriously composed color, within its almond confinements. It is expressionless and void of all feeling. Its graceful catlike poise and its orderly thick locks are startling to those who have met the common orc. As are its white teeth, small and manly yet sharp as blades, its lips that do not snarl or roar, and its flat yet articulate voice.

The orc, the Frûmnauk, is not hideous, but enticing, mesmerizing and serene. Yet as deadly and merciless as its ancient brethren. The perfect assassin. Or would be, if it weren't for its blood. Its one giveaway, so apparent on its tongue. The only reason why the elves would never believe them to be a separate race.

Only the enemy has black blood.

But the enemy has hatred. The enemy has malice. The enemy is born of darkness.

On the other hand, the Frûmnauk has no hatred. There is no malice. There is no darkness.

Nor is there light, for light is the twin of dark. Beast is lover to Beauty. Hatred is brother to love. Love is flawed, but so is hatred. Pity is faulty, but malice is as deficient. The animalistic and raw elemental soul of the orc is inadequate for peace. The new blood is neither fiery in spirit, nor cold. Sauron did not pour any of his malice within its creation, stilling all emotion both evil and good.

Evil and good are brothers.

Neither can fade away unless both die. It is the balance of the world. All or nothing.

Even hatred holds a light.

The Frûmnauk contains _nothing_.

A shadow within shadow. A shadow _of _shadow to destroy the light. The light that is the creation of the Valar, who Sauron the Deceiver hates most.

Yet Sauron also hates Morgoth. He hates the darkness, just as he does the light.

And hates the orcs and balrogs, the children of Morgoth, as he does the elves and men.

To him, there is no conceivable line between light and dark or good and evil. Both are one and the same.

Both must die. The only shadow – the only _light –_ that must live is the one within the confinement of his spirit.

The Frûmnauk have been made to destroy the light of the darkness and the darkness of the light. As long as darkness exists, it feeds the light. As long as light exists, it feeds the darkness.

The eternal cycle of the power of the Ainur. The power that Melkor had held. The power that had been the focus of all wars. The power that had given Sauron Middle-Earth.

The power that Sauron seeks to destroy altogether.

This is the true nature of the Frûmnauk-hai; this is their sole purpose.

* * *

Khatlob stirred. Someone was in the room. She leapt onto her hands and knees with a snarl. Slowly, she remembered Morhont had returned early. She looked at him. Her mate was still asleep. He might have been dead, but no such luck.

Morhont's black eyes narrowed into slits and he stretched, the glaze of sleep clearing from his eyes. He jerked awake and listened.

"What is it?"

"Ssst!" he hushed her. "I'm going to look. Stay here!"

He slipped out, half-naked and delicious looking in Khatlob's eyes, and listened. It sounded like a battle. Too loud to be a skirmish, but too quiet to be war or invasion.

A rebellion? Morhont narrowed his eyes. No…

He stepped back inside. He dressed in his full armor and picked up his whip. He paused, then took a sword as well before leaving again.

* * *

Outside the wraith-city, far away from the battle, the orc-general was foaming at the mouth. "What dung-faced worm closed the gates?! Why did you call me here?"

The Frûmnauk Agonkâl-Captain 337 stepped up to him from the shadows. "You are not allowed to enter. We called you to the city gates. You are not allowed to enter. Your time is at an end, General Kûhag."

Kûhag didn't have time to attack or flee. 337 took his head between his hands and squeezed. The hapless, once feared general didn't even have a death scream. His head burst in the other's pale hands. Captain 337 let the body fall. Moist brains dribbled down his fingers. Kûhag's personal escorting company stood agape in sheer horror.

The Frûmnauk-hai attacked.

The orcs lasted only a brief moment. The Frûmnauk captain calmly wiped his brain-splattered hands on the ground and returned to the city to report.

* * *

Morhont snarled out a curse as he lost footing on the slick pile of orc flesh and armor. Dead bodies, some Frûmnauk-hai but others orcs, lay scattered about. The cool air stank of death. The slave-driver nearly grinned out of macabre delight, but at the same time he felt a tug of frustration.

There was no one alive there. Whatever had happened, it was now over.

Morhont heard footfalls not too far ahead. Perhaps someone was left who could say what had happened, or what was going on. He started toward them. Whether from a sixth sense or mere nerves, he dropped to the ground behind a pile of corpses. A great host of Frûmnauks marched past him. Morhont hid. He had no desire to get involved until he knew what he could get out of it.

_If only I'd kept the Ring… _he found himself thinking, despite the fact that the Ring had been a torment to him in the short time he'd carried it. Bile rose in his throat. He would be worse than dead if Sauron knew what he'd thought!

He stayed hidden until the last of the Frûmnauks had marched by. He looked up to see two more coming from behind the curve. He waited until they passed, then stood up to speak. He didn't even get a word out. They halted and darted forward.

An orc leapt out from the darkness with a shriek. The stranger grappled at one Frûmnauk.

Likely a rebellion. _The _rebellion. But Morhont didn't wish to get his head knocked off so soon. He ducked and waited.

The other Frûmnauk snapped the orc's neck, and dropped it aside from its dying companion. Even though it had been stabbed and scratched violently, the wounded Frûmnauk died without a murmur or flinch. The surviving Frûmnauk went on alone.

Morhont watched him pass. He stood up. A sound tickled his ear.

Someone was chanting and singing to himself, interspersed with crazed giggles. An orc was staring with glazed eyes at where the Frûmnauk-hai had passed. Disgusted, Morhont snapped, "Shut your mouth! What happened?"

The half-crazed orc's green eyes stared into him. "What happened? You don't– You _want_ to know what happened?" He burst into a fit of laughter. The orc whimpered and fell back into frightened sniveling. "The Frûmnauk… they're…"

"I knew that already! Curse you, what about the Frûmnauks?"

"He has commanded them to wipe us out. He has betrayed us! Us, his faithful and loyal servants! S-Sauron has abandoned us."

The words were foreign to Morhont's ears, just as they would've been to any other orc. Morhont puzzled over them for a brief moment. The second it sunk through, all emotion failed the flood of horror that rushed through him.

_He has betrayed us. Sauron has abandoned us._

It was impossible. The orcs could've been rebelling as one. The Frûmnauk could've been attempting to take over the land single-handedly, but this was just–

Words failed to describe the absurdity of it all. It was simply _unthinkable_. Sauron could and would never turn against His people. They had _won_ Him Middle-Earth. They had _given_ Him the Ring to do it. He couldn't just turn against them.

Morhont ignored the horror-crazed orc and stood up to head back to Khatlob and their hut.

* * *

Khatlob barely heard the door open and shut. If Morhont was that quiet, it mustn't have been much. Still curiosity goaded her. "Well?" She walked across the hut. "Morhont, what–?"

She halted, and her mouth remained agape in silence. The black eyes she stared into were not her mate's eyes, and his right hand–

There were five fingers. It took her less than a second to realize it was a Frûmnauk. The Frûmnauk held up a blade and came at her, others pouring in. Khatlob leapt away with an enraged yell. She knocked down one Frûmnauk and grabbed his knife. She charged the entire Frûmnauk company, mouth agape and foaming, an orc battle call on her black lips.

Their captain seized her by the hair and yanked her to him. He crushed her in his arms like a fragile piece of glass. He threw her broken body against the wall where her carcass left a sticky trail of black blood.

They searched the hut in silence and found none alive. They took nothing when they left.

* * *

"Morhont!" He halted, black eyes narrowing. Two battered orcs stumbled up to him. Urkghâsh gasped, "The Frûmnauk–"

"I know! What happened to you?"

Gorkash growled. "I don't know–"

"I thought as much," Morhont spat out. Gorkash's face turned black and he barely bit down his retort. He eyed the slave-driver nervously.

Urkghash said, "It happened so fast. The Frumnauk charged us and everything was a mess after that. Everyone died in the fight, except for us and Galkun, and his mind was gone."

Something akin to relief soaked the shock and rage that had burned inside Morhont. "How gone? Was he saying 'He has betrayed us all'? I could've guessed as much while he was babbling," he said, indifferently.

His apprentices looked at each other. "Who said that?" Gorkash asked sharply. "He was as dumb as a beast! Who did you talk to?"

Morhont snapped, "Don't you dare talk that way to your master! I spoke to one of the soldiers down there." He nodded to the distant battleground. "He kept mumbling about how the Frûmnauk have orders to kill everyone. Orders taken from Lugbúrz."

The two orcs screeched. Urkghâsh shouted, "What? What kind of dung-filth–?"

"His mind snapped. Nothing more to it. He's probably carrion now," Morhont answered. He told them all that had passed.

"Not Galkun," grunted Gorkash. "Someone else, I guess. It hardly matters. Both are good as dead now. We'll be sure to report these to the Frûmnauk. But let's check on the settlements just in case."

"Your home isn't far from here. We could check there first," suggested Urkghâsh to Morhont.

Morhont's lips curled over his teeth. "Go on! I'll see to my home myself. Get going!"

Urkghash and Gorkash wasted no time. The world seemed much larger without the two fools around. Morhont felt much more cheerful without them around. A fang-studded smile was fighting to appear when he saw the hut.

The door had been left gaping open. His urge to smile died instantly. Morhont ran to it. "Khatlob!"

Silence. "Khat!" He shouted. Silence. Morhont rushed in. A bony form lay bloodied and crushed against the wall. Morhont knelt beside his dead mate. A Frumnauk-blade was in her hands.

The ominous truth of that realization stopped him. If she had been attacked inside without reason, then _who_ had been carrying a–?

All relief from learning a mad orc had survived drained from Morhont's mind. If she had been involved in the rebellion, he could've avenged her by killing any Frûmnauks he could. If other orcs had attacked her, violated her, then brutally killed her, he could've easily have hunted them down and killed them. It was what was expected of orcs when their family was attacked or hurt.

But he couldn't this time.

Morhont sat next to Khatlob and brooded in silence. The shadows shortened. The darkness covering Mordor was withdrawing to Lugbúrz.

Where could they go now? The North and the mountains would be searched, so Moria and the old orc-homes were out of the question. He was safe for the time being where he was, but not for long. Sauron turn His back on them? Morhont knelt and picked up a fallen mug. He slammed it onto the table with a shout of frustrated rage, denting the table. How in Middle-Earth were they supposed to defeat Sauron?

Morhont sat for a moment, considering. If only he could retake–

The next moment was horrible.

* * *

Fredegar asked again, "What's going on?"

Nick hushed him again. He frowned, listening. "It's so quiet…"

The hobbits listened. Nick called out. No cursing or barking orc voices. He called out again. Silence. "They're gone. Now, come on! Hurry! We have to get out of here."

One of the Rohirrim shook his head. "How?"

Nick blushed. "We have… ah… something the orcs won't miss." He held up a piece of broken and twisted metal.

"Where did you get that?" a man inquired sharply.

Rosie's brother shrugged. "We stole it from Gorkash before they left. Allow me."

He twisted the metal inside the lock and swung open the gate. "Anyone know where the orcs stored their supplies? I'm hungry enough to eat the dirt itself, and we'll need provisions if we're going to go anywhere."

His good cheer in dark world incited a cheer from the captives.

* * *

The first thing the orc was aware of was the pain running through one side of him and the dull throbbing of his head. Sunlight poured down on his face. Morhont jerked opened his eyes. Or rather woozily tried. Why, by the Eye, had he fallen asleep outside in broad daylight? With a violent rush, memories started flooding back.

Sauron had deserted them, and Khatlob was dead. But things had only gotten worse from then on.

Morhont retched and staggered into the shadows, shivering in disgust and horror.

He remembered little of what had happened. The laughter and voice inside his mind, commanding him to kill himself. The feeling of his head being slowly crushed. His mind's screams, pleas, and violent curses and threats, quickly dispersing into yammering. Sauron hadn't been subtle. Perhaps he derived pleasure from watching his men break before slaying them.

Or perhaps, having carried the Ring, Morhont had just been more aware of what had been going on, though with a severely weakened willpower.

Unfortunately for Sauron, Morhont's willpower hadn't been the only thing weakened greatly by contact with the Ring.

He'd passed out before he could even get a knife to obey the Voice's bidding. Morhont growled to himself. Of all the stupid base reactions to be saved by, it would be fainting like a elf-maiden at an orc's healthy breath.

He gave himself a moment to recover from his giddiness before returning to the hut to get what food and drink he could carry. He paused where Khatlob lay. He knelt beside her and carefully removed the Frûmnauk-knife from her dead hands. Morhont was almost ready to leave. Not quite satisfied, he picked up a cast aside whip. An extra whip could always prove useful. He coiled it and tucked it near his knife and preferred whip. The ex-driver hurried away from the hut, straggling in the sunlight, but not keen on staying one minute longer.

Morhont wondered who else had had personal attacks from Sauron. The remains of mass suicide he ran into when he reached the other orc-huts answered him easily enough. It was intermingled with blatant signs of squabbling. The orcs didn't even look much like they were in pain. Just surprised to find their own hands knifing them and more than a little scared. Among them were some of the most feared champions Morhont had ever heard of in his millennium long life.

A bitter, half-crazed grin touched his leathery face, not even bothering to approach his black eyes. So much for the might of the uruk-hai. It appeared they had even lower success in surviving than the _snaga_. Morhont wondered if more orcs would survive if they'd fainted, however embarrassing afterwards it might be. Humiliated and alive was little better than stupid and dead, but it was still better.

Some of the bodies were still twitching. Morhont thought he recognized Gorkash and Urkghâsh among the twitching corpses, but didn't bother to investigate further.

His thin grin widened, amazingly enough. Morhont was not accustomed to any emotion but brooding bitterness and rage. The grin left his face feeling sore.

He had put a distance between him and the Frûmnauk-hai – but now what? Considering Sauron's power over them, it didn't look like the orcs had any chance to succeed with retaliation. Morhont admitted to himself that the Frûmnauks were ahead of them. There was an even more relishingly disturbing thought: what if he was the last? He could always act like he is the last. Perhaps it would help him survive, like taking the name Baggins' Bane.

His grin stretched into a wide sneer. Call himself Baggins' Bane _and _the last of the orcs? Who was he kidding? It would turn him into a joke. Baggins was dead long before he could get near him, thanks to the halfling they'd called Sam.

It was incredible that Lugbúrz had eaten up his story about crossing paths with the two and having a brief fight. That was true, for the most part, except for Morhont's part about killing Baggins himself. He'd nearly ended up being sent to the Black Pits for killing a wanted spy. But upon being given back his Ring, Sauron had decided for some reason to simply give him two half-wits for apprentices and ignore the existence of the orc who had retrieved his Ring.

Morhont thought sourly, _I can hear him now: 'The orc who found my Ring? Oh yes! M… Mor…Maronk,? Mustn't've been someone important otherwise I'd remember.' Evil sniggering…. 'Well, give him more work before he comes near me again. No… _pile _it on!'_

His disturbing grin vanished into his usual scowl. Much more like it.

* * *

Rose wondered how long it would be till they reach the remnants of the Free People. The two elves stopped. "We're almost there. Keep very quiet: the orcs are preparing for a last assault."

"You're taking us straight back to the orcs?" Asked the dark-haired lass who had barely escaped being the orcs' last victim. She turned rather green as she fell silent.

Elladan had enough nerve to laugh. "No, not back to the orcs. To where you will be safe for the time being. It may be that there is no escape this time from them no matter where you go. The world is infested with them."

Rose absently wondered if Morhont would be among the orc-soldiers. She clenched her hands in anticipation. Another pang went through her womb. A slow smile touched her. The creature weakened. She hoped it would be long dead before she'd cross paths with Morhont again. She didn't need to be encumbered by a doomed orc-brat on their second encounter. There might not be a third encounter afterwards.

Rose refused to concede to the disturbing thought that there might not even be a second encounter. There were hundreds of thousands of orcs in Middle-Earth and it had been two years. Morhont could be hundreds of miles away in Mordor, or worse– already be dead from a fatal brawl.

With that undesired realization came a sudden frustrating thought: if she couldn't find Morhont, she would never learn how Sam died or get a chance to bring vengeance on the orc.

And what if she should pass him by without recognizing him? But, no, Morhont's unmistakable features had been burned in her mind. Rose couldn't miss him. The matted mane of pale hair and large black eyes would be hard to miss. She bit her lip and felt another rippling pain in her womb.

She winced and smiled, casually brushing it aside. It would stop soon enough.

It didn't.

It seemed days, even years, before Rose woke up again. The terrible pain had ebbed away into incredible soreness, but everything was a reeling blur. Someone – _Sam?– _hovered over her and forced her to eat something. She shivered, cold and hot at the same time, carried along gently in strong elfin arms. She didn't know if her delirious thoughts were spoken or silent. _You're so good at skimming rocks, Sam. Can you teach me? Mine can barely skim the surface… Nibs! Ma wants you!… Jolly, were you and young Tom playing in the mud _again?…_ Samwise, you came for me! Where were you? What took you so long? I've missed you so much…_

A musical voice hushed her, helping her drink something warm and wholesome tasting. "Ssh! It's okay. Rest in peace and silence, my friend. We have little time and the orcs' ears are as sensitive as a cat's."

Everything blurred together and she slowly became aware that she could hear the crackling of fire. She blinked her eyes. She was lying in a cave, on a bed of stone with some blankets beneath her.

One of the twins, she thought Elrohir, knelt beside her. She started to sit up, but he pushed her back down gently. "Lie still. You have been asleep for two days."

"Two days?" _Only _two?

"We're safe for now. Rest."

Rose didn't have the strength to resist.

* * *

Morhont listened carefully to the other survivors from the shadows. One of the advantages of having black eyes. Lesser chance of being seen. After recuperating for a couple of days, it had taken him less than a night to find them, though he'd hoped he never would.

At the moment, he was wishing more than ever that he hadn't. The crackbrained speaker called Tausbag goaded the others into sending news to Lugbúrz of the disaster. _Morons!_ Morhont thought with a contemptuous scowl. Didn't they feel that… thing? Had he been the only one who'd been aware? Not likely.

A little, earless orc with an irritating squeaky lisp in his voice snarled, "Lugburz brought it on us. Let's get out of here before there's a second attack. We'll strike out on our own."

Well, maybe it wasn't so unlikely as Morhont had thought.

"In your opinion, Gûlthak." Morhont jerked. If he hadn't been shocked, he would've sharply asked, _How do you know that name?_ Then he realized his mistake. Tausbag was talking to the squeaker. His lips twitched in a fleet smirk at his error. It _had_ been five hundred years since–

"Oi! You in the shadows! Get out of there!" A pair of oversized uruk hands, incredibly big even for their giant bodies, seized him by the hair and the back of his neck.

"Agh! Let go, you stinking–!" Morhont shouted. He started to squirm, until a flicker of pain in his neck reminded him how effortless it would be for the large hands to snap his bones if he struggled enough. The two brown uruks shoved him into the gathering.

A snotty-nosed lowlife who couldn't even pass as a private squeaked and asked, "What's this? A straggler?" Morhont spotted its hand caressing a whip lovingly. A _snagamag. _A lowly orc who called himself a slave-driver. The creature grinned and brought his face right up to Morhont's. He opened his mouth to speak–

"Stay away from me, scum!" Morhont snapped, kicking the orc aside.

The slave-driver wannabe staggered back on his feet, eyes brightened with rage and sadistic pleasure. "You filthy little–!" He tried to use his whip, but Morhont's foot pressed it into the ground. The wannabe gave a frustrated wail and tugged at it.

Morhont shoved him aside with his free foot. "Get lost, you worthless piece of dung! Can't you recognize a _Frúshgoth_ when you see one? I oughta wring your scrawny little neck!"

The _snagamag _yelped and hurried off. Gûlthak watched him run past with a snicker, then repeated himself, "Tausbag, the Frûmnauks will be at our necks if we stay. We're outnumbered."

"Yes, we're outnumbered, but that's the weaklings' faults. Them and their mass suicide. No wonder, what with all our lovely ladies dead."

Morhont started. Someone else asked, carefully, "Dead?"

Tausbag nodded, pleased to see he'd caught their attention. "Dead."

Gûlthak squealed like an enraged pig. He shouted, "What did I tell you? Let's get out of here before they kill us too!"

Tausbag eyed the smaller orc with a look that screamed antipathy. "Fine! You go your way, and I'll go mine. _Anything_ to lose your stupid chatter, you filthy deserter! If we catch you again, we'll have Morhont–" he nodded to the black-eyed slave-driver, who gave him a look that firmly said Morhont had no intentions of following Tausbag– "Flog the skin off your back. You got that?"

Gûlthak cringed and nodded. He darted up and vanished into the dark. Little over half the crowd went after him, including Morhont, much to Tausbag's shock and disgust. The last thing Morhont heard Tausbag say was a last, feeling, "_Traitor!_"

**

* * *

**

They slept little during their last stay in Mordor, and spent most of their time on the move plundering the broken huts and camps, keeping wary eyes and ears open for trouble. There was little food left. Other orcs had plundered there before them and had taken the choice food with them, and most of the old and foul meats. A few stale crusts and the overlooked bone were all too often what had been left.

The orcs made their way to Cirith Ungol. They would make their way through the Spider's Lair, down the stairs, and into freedom. That was all Gûlthak had figured out, but what to do from then remained a problem.

Other survivors were quick to join them, giving them information and suggestions, mostly unwanted..

A heavy fog cloaked the mountainside so they could barely make out where they were going. They waited for it to lift, but it didn't. Gûlthak snarled out a curse in a mewing voice. He ordered them to make camp. The squeaky captain looked over the orcs below him. The might of the orcs had been greatly depleted and all that remained of the great army that had once marched against the armies of Rohan and Gondor was the gloomy caravan of weary orcs and wargs.

One of the wargs growled: _There are few of us here._

His rider answered, likewise in warg-speech: _We'll make up for it._

Someone cursed. The wargrider turned to face the thin orc who stood not far away. Eh? Baggins' Bane? The orc across from him had black eyes and pale hair. Three fingers were missing from his right hand and his left held a coiled whip. If that wasn't enough to convince Sulhûl, the firm chin and the strong hook of the stranger's nose clarified it.

He grunted. "_Mallot. _Sulhûl."

The stranger's head turned slightly. His lips curled in a soundless snarl. "Morhont."

Sulhûl dismounted. "What's that Gûlthak doing?"

Something flickered in the taller orc's eyes when he mentioned the orc captain. Morhont snapped,"How should I know?"

"You're up there–"

"I don't know! He's been keeping it quiet even to his cronies."

The wargrider snorted. The slave-driver's black eyes narrowed. "He's scum. An old whimpering _snaga_." he said with unusual vehemence. His face was murderous. Sulhûl gave him a warily quizzical glance, and carefully moved a few inches away.

"Who does he think he is?" Morhont grumbled under his breath. He muttered darkly, "He's up to something. And I don't like it."

* * *

Deep within the refuge of the earth, the Free People waited for the inevitable final battle. The men stood on shifts at attention; posts were set at the two entrances. The orcs had vanished suddenly as though distracted. Faramir felt a pang of guilt. Was it the hobbits Elrohir and Elladan had gone to retrieve? Had he done wrong in sending the two warriors out when all passes were blocked? The thought faded. No, they could take care of themselves. If they perish, they perish, and there was always the danger.

The weight of the two years he'd ruled the Free People alone weighed down on his shoulders. Why hadn't Gandalf returned to them when they needed him the most? Where was he? There was a flutter in his mind. _Patience!_

A slow, grim smile touched his lips. Gandalf would come when it was time.

* * *

A two-fingered fist slammed down with a dull splat on the mud the orcs sat on. "_You worthless piece of–!_" Morhont bit down the violent curse. The other orcs sat in rigid shock, eyes large as plates. He grated out, "So you want us to get the help of the dratted Elf-friends…?" The two fingers dug into the muck.

Gûlthak watched the fingers cautiously, attempting to look calm and in control. He failed miserably. He squeaked, "Of course not! Just…" He cringed and shut up. Morhont engaged in a private battle between ripping the orc's head off and waiting until after he had trapped himself in a verbal snare. "Well… they wiped out Gothmog's army… They took Him down and took the Ring… They nearly succeeded in destroying It too! Remember?"

The orcs slowly recovered from their bout of shock and traded snarls. They remembered too well, though only a couple had been born before the Great Battle. Morhont growled, "That's your plan…? _All_ of it?"

"Ah…"

Someone interrupted the smaller orc. "We've a better one. How 'bout we cut off your ears and we fight _alone_?"

That, of course, was even more unrealistic than Gûlthak's plan. Between Sauron and the superior Frûmnauks, they couldn't hold out long. It had taken the Frûmnauk-hai less than two hours to wipe out the main bulk of the great orc army and the orc-women. Sauron took mere seconds to break thousands. Morhont reminded himself painfully of the possibility that he only knew this because he had carried the Ring for a short time.

"Gû – ah…" Morhont refused to state the name. The worm was too far below him. "The squealer's right. It's stupid, but at least it's something. And if they refuse, we'll kill them."

Gûlthak leaned toward the slave-driver. "Ah! You see it my way?"

"Come any closer to me and I'll carve you a new face."

The lowly orc captain flinched and backed away. He barked to the other orcs, "We leave at night!"

* * *

**_A/N: And so the story ends unfinished and comptelely abandoned..._**


End file.
